Burning Man Festival

Burning Man Can Be A Life-Changing Experience - But Are Rich Tourists Ruining It?

One of the most resonating experiences I had was climbing a 40-foot tower by center camp and looking out over the horizon. On that tiny suspended platform I met a man named Doggie Jomo — his skin was leathery and sunburnt, evidence of a lifetime spent in Margaritaville. And he went on to tell me about his recent divorce ending 40 years of marriage. He told me everything, without filter — his infidelities, what he wished he had done better. He shared his advice on what I should do if I wanted to keep my relationship from sailing similar seas. At the end, we just embraced and said goodbye.

Late one night as we biked by, another dude who called himself the Godfather offered us a shot of tequila. His partner — who was shit-kicking drunk — shot my friend in the face with a super soaker, point blank. I jokingly harassed him to put the Pepe Lopez rotgut away and bring out the Don Julio from the cooler as restitution. He did, and gave us all frozen T-shirts to cool off.

At the burning of The Embrace, an unspeakably beautiful, massive art installation that took two years to design and three weeks to assemble, a kid approached and handed me a pendant of the Russian sun. He barely spoke English. The wooden sculpture was of two lovers staring deeply into each other’s eyes. For twenty minutes it immolated, their wooden flesh slowly consumed by rolling, billowing flames, the blaze from the two heads combining into one orange fire towering into the dawn. An ocean of admirers stood rapt, silent, themselves consumed. I looked over, and tears were streaming down the kid’s face.

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On my final night we watched the Man slowly burn to the ground, fireworks exploding around him in orgasmic jubilation. We rode our bikes out at sunrise to the Robot Heart art car for their final set, deep in the Playa. One of us happens to be the DJ’s publicist, so we wanted to say hello by the booth. Only there was a bouncer at the door — a smiling, heavily costumed bouncer, but a bouncer nonetheless. Although at first he wouldn’t let us in, when we explained whom we worked with he eventually parted the bus’s doors.

Robot Heart is known for two things: very well curated music (Art Department, Seth Troxler, Diplo and Skrillex, Thievery Corp, Lee Burridge and more played this year), and its giant namesake heart, whereupon stunningly exquisite women dance — the type that, if you’re not careful, will pierce your heart with a deep, infinite sadness. This morning was no exception.

In this, what was the emblematic “Radical Exclusivity” location, I found nothing but welcoming faces. People I’d never met before offered me iced drinks, chocolates of impure origins and hugs. Lots of hugs. I found myself chatting for over an hour with this guy from Connecticut, and has happened millions of times in my life we found ourselves discussing the Patriots vs. the Giants. The merits of Tom Brady and Eli Manning. We talked mad shit, we insulted each other profoundly in a way that seemed very un-Burning Man and yet perfectly at home.

When I mentioned I was a journalist, he stiffened. “Hey man, do me a favor — please don’t make me look bad,” he said, clearly concerned. Why in the world would I make him look bad, I wondered aloud? Not only had he and his friends been the epitome of friendly and hospitable, but I had no intentions of talking shit about random people. Then, like that scene in The Usual Suspects, clues began swirling in my head. I began putting things together. The fact he went to Harvard, his Brazilian supermodel girlfriend. That he was 6’4”, and had an identical twin shimmying away next to him.

Holy sh*t: I was partying with the Winklevoss twins. They whose very photograph was used in that infamous Gawker piece to epitomize the rich who were allegedly ruining Burning Man. I was sleeping with the enemy. My head spun, swimming in a whirlpool of absinthe, chocolates and hypocrisy. Slap my ass and call me Susan: what the hell was I supposed to do now? Lecture him on my critical thoughts about turnkey camps? Recite the 10 Principles of Burning Man, emphasizing the tenets of Radical Self-Reliance and Inclusion? Take a f*cking selfie?

I gripped the cold steel railing and looked around. Below us, a sea of yellow-dusted human beings danced away blithely to house music emanating from the Robot Heart’s generous soundsystem. Above me, women of otherworldly beauty moved militarily, commanded by the rhythmic pulse of warm bass. Everywhere I looked, happiness. Profound human happiness.

I didn’t know what any of it meant. But who the hell was I to say the Winklevoss twins had no place here? Who the hell was I to pontificate on the merits of Radical Inclusion? I turned around, and one of the Winklevosses handed me a can of beer beading with cold condensation. He was smiling, his arm around his girlfriend. I smiled back. I turned back and looked out at the sea of radically smiling faces one more time, for a long time. I had the sense that Burning Man was gonna be just fine.

All images credited to Rich Van Every, whose work can be found at his website.